


Different Forms of Detonation

by decayinghorizon



Series: The Sharpest Lives [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Gen, fem!Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6881581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decayinghorizon/pseuds/decayinghorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their line of work, it was inevitable that they'd go a little insane, get a little damaged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nobody Cares If You're Losing Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> just little glimpses into the lives of and backstory behind these three; the general fake ah stuff. way more angsty/serious than these losers would ever be.

A war had broken out. Bullets were flying, and the crew scattered. Their explosives expert dove for his bombs, their sniper ran for the fire escapes, ascending to the rooftops, and their masked vagabond walked calmly through the carnage, surveying, putting sure bullets into the opposing bodies that still breathed, still wielded weapons. He had built a life on violence, steely gaze glazed over, cold when faced with death. Years of desensitization came in handy during wartime.

It had begun out of necessity. He was hungry and broke, living in a bad part of town, and the nearest crew was in need of a hitman. He was young then, free of scars, with light in his eyes. He fixed computers, had never pulled a trigger in his whole life. He found the job through a Craigslist posting masquerading as an IT job; they handed him a gun, and he killed a man for the first time that night. He felt numb, after, and that numbness never left him. He was covered in scars, wore a mask to hide his face from the world, from himself. He cracked bone under his heels, blood spattered, and he wondered what his life could’ve been like, had he not fallen so far. He ducked behind a parked car, heard the bullets hit metal, and when he emerged, he left his regrets on the pavement. He couldn’t feel the pain anymore, couldn’t separate one victim from the next, and the past ten years of his life blurred into smoke and blood and distant misery.

His title was officially explosives expert, but they called him gasoline boy. He used to set off fireworks for fun, born with a passion for pyrotechnics. He had a fiery temper to go with it, ready to ignite, always ending up in fist fights, no stranger to bruised, bloody knuckles, or split lips, or broken bones. All he needed was fuel to catch the spark. He had gotten into this business young, only 16 when he successfully constructed and detonated his first bomb, basked in the chaos that followed, and was hired on soon after. He breathed in gunpowder, exhaled smoke, made it his whole life and lived for it. He picked shattered glass from his fists, blood dripping from his nostrils and leaking through bandages, and reached for the detonation switch.

The vagabond was often thought to be the most threatening of the group, his skull mask stopping men in their tracks, widely considered a death omen; but it was this gasoline boy they should’ve been keeping a careful eye on. Where the vagabond was precise and clean, the boy was messy, brutal. He grinned with blood on his teeth, and was delighted to watch gore drip from his hands. So watch the vagabond, and you’ll never see gasoline boy come up and slit your throat.

Their sniper made his way to the nearest fire escape he could find, jumped across gaps between tops of buildings, sprinting until he had his eye on an enemy, a ledge to kill from. He had scrapes on his knees, holes in his jeans from falling to rooftops, scrambling for a sight down the barrel, a clean shot. He was quick, and small, and often overlooked, able to blend into backgrounds without ever raising suspicions, the perfect candidate for the job. He was quiet but with a sarcastic wit, always making quips about his victims to himself, alone on his perch. His eye was glued to the scope, mindlessly pulling the trigger, putting bullets into brains as his mind wandered, thinking about the video games he loved to play, how his digital achievements outshone any of his real ones. He had dropped out of college after deciding it wasn’t for him, did this for a paycheck, and he didn’t mind. He was always bored, apathetic on his best days, and he never cared one way or another, not about the people he killed, not about himself. Being alone all the time had it’s side effects, thinking too much always his worst enemy. He lacked passion, for anything, and had a sick fascination with the pavement below, always wondering what would happen if he just missed a jump between rooftops, if his blood would pool in an alley until there was nothing left, how long it would take for them to discover his body. If he’d reflexively try and break his fall, somehow, scraping his palms or breaking his arms on impact.

If he would be memorialized in the form of a Craigslist posting, looking for the next lonely loser willing to take his place. If whoever responded would be handed his bright pink sniper rifle with a spatter of his still-warm blood on it and if that person could still feel, if they’d eventually become as jealous of their victims as he was of his.

He decided to save that person, whoever they might have been, and just kept shooting, pulling his trigger and making his jokes, doing his best to ignore the pull of the ground below.


	2. We Run This City.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the king, the queen, and the crown prince. not necessarily in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing style ended up a little different in this one but I figured I'd just make it a second chapter since it's the second half of the crew? (minus Jeremy, bc i haven't quite figured out how to write him yet, rip. one day.) also, wrote this before it was announced that Lindsay runs AH now so double rip.

He wore gold on his wrists, his fingers, the frames of his aviators, thousands of dollars shielding his eyes from the sun, wealth dripping from his fingertips, written in his posture and his perpetual grin. Binary runs behind his glasses, endless lines of fluorescent code against the blackness, running fast, processing as his gilded fingertips hit the keys at breakneck speed, smarter than all the people who underestimated him. He’s breathing in slow motion but he never slows down, not really, mind full of what ifs and will bes, always both curious and sure, full of contradictions and surprises, more than he seems.

He, this golden boy, is always close but distant, dancing in fire but thinking in languages all his own. He is all of the action and none of it, creating chaos, both organized and far out of his control, starting things he can’t finish and finishing things he hadn’t started, disabling blaring alarms as he’s setting them off. He’s been doing this all his life, existing in his world without anyone else, as much out of necessity as preference. He is bright, but everything around him is dull, and he’s always felt he would burn out quickly, his cinematic view fading to black as he falls.

But for now, he smiles, succeeds, and stares into the sun, daring it to burn him.

She’s the the second in command, the pilot and the getaway, a firecracker blazing bright in the starless night. She surveyed the city lights from her view from the rooftop helipad and knew that she shone brighter than all of them, a queen to peasants. She was as lethal as any of the crew, but regarded as docile, gentle, a misconception she loved to use to her advantage, hiding behind the scenes unnoticed until she’s in peoples' faces to prove them wrong. To the rival crews, she was nothing more than a background player, someone easily ignored, non threatening, because what kind of men would they be if they were intimidated by a ginger girl in a hawaiian shirt? Well, they’d be smart men, and she couldn’t have that, could she? So she was the organizer, the manipulator, setting them up to knock them down before they ever realized she was leading them into danger.

She was a getaway driver by choice, by nature, a second string player with first string skills, strong where her rivals were weak. She was a game of opposites balancing scales; she was reckless when she needed to be but made sure they all stayed safe, a mother as much as she was a rebel, would stay as soon as leave, fire spreading over ice. Harm her crew, her family, and she’d hunt you down, cut throats, burn buildings and take no prisoners, as vicious as she was pretty, but level-headed and unafraid. The precious right hand to the king, she presses the buttons, pulls the strings, and laughs, because they will never learn to fear her.

His head clear despite the alcohol perpetually swirling in his veins, he was the king, the puppeteer, and with his queen he pulled strings with a steady hand, the conductor of a symphony, leading the crew with an iron grip but an open heart. They were his family, his successors, and he was always waiting with a sleight of hand, willing to turn any table to get his men (and woman) out alive. He inked compasses on his arms and anchors on his hands, keeping him grounded while taking him anywhere he wanted to go, bought first class plane tickets to exotic places but always returned, a family man. He turned crime into a game, rebuilt cities in his design, his creativity unlimited and his laughter ringing out wherever he went. A punk in a past life, he wore his tuxedos with converse and blared old school punk rock from the windows of his limousine, singing just a little off key. He had silver guns custom engraved, bullets always hitting the mark, shot straight and never looked back. When he went out into battle, his rivals left in body bags and his crew left untouched.

He handpicked every one of them, watched them from afar until he decided they were his to watch out for, built his crew from the ground up and never for a second regretted any of it, knowing they would long outlast him, but content with knowing he would never have to see them fall.

**Author's Note:**

> I've written kind of a lot about the fahc lately, some other people (girls, etc.) as well as lots of individual character backstories, so I'll probably get around to posting those sometime, probably as sequels to this? also that second chapter was totally not angsty and makes the story description kinda off but i don't know how to better format it so uh, i tried?


End file.
